Song for a Sleepwalker
by Tadpole24
Summary: There are moments that he thinks he can remember glimpses of their past, flashes of light in the all-consuming blankness of the past six weeks, like that space in between striking a match and waiting for the flame to burn alive; dashes of a memory. Captain Swan, post 5x04.


_**Can we talk about that rose scene? We all need to talk about that rose scene. Because wow. We are one lucky fandom.**_

 _ **This is a little bit based on what could happen next week. But more just what I wish would happen in every episode :)**_

…

Song for a Sleepwalker

…

There are moments, in between the panic of losing her, that he thinks he can remember glimpses of their past, flashes of light in the all-consuming blankness of the past six weeks, like that space in between striking a match and waiting for the flame to burn alive; dashes of a memory. There are blush coloured roses and golden tumbles of hair, sunlight streaking through greenery and her lips, _her lips,_ so soft and warm against his following him in his dreams, waking him from his nightmares.

They're small blossoms of hope blooming and fading, ebbing and flowing, through his mind. Things that he can't quite grasp, but that make him sure of one thing. That, if he hurt Emma, if he truly hurt his love, it must have been misunderstood. The love in his heart still beats strong for her, still steals his breath in an all-encompassing embrace, takes him by surprise when he tries to put up his walls.

 _Gods above,_ he still loves her. And he doesn't think he'll ever stop.

…

He finds her in that infernal dreamcatcher room. An entire space devoted to the fact that she can't sleep, that her basic humanity has been stolen from her. There's a tilt to her shoulders, something not quite right and, as he comes around to face her, steps echoing in the emptiness of the room, he sees that she has been crying. Her tears are dry now, but he _knows_ her, knows how she holds her bottom lip between her teeth when she's scared, knows how her eyes shine with sadness, with longing, knows how her heart beats with abandonment. And, gods, he _knows_ she has been crying and he hasn't been here.

"Emma," he says quietly, carefully, "Let me in, darling. Let me help."

It hurts when she flinches away from his touch, a physical pain that lodges somewhere between his shoulder blades and steals his breath away in a completely different way to the love that beats in his chest.

"There is nothing _to_ help," she answers, voice stronger than she appears, as though her soul is trying to call out to him but it's the demon within her who speaks. "This is who I am now. This is who I chose to be."

He's held onto his next question for the longest time, afraid of the answer. But today he knows that, whatever she says, he can take it. He knows that whatever betrayal she has come to believe, there is an explanation. There has to be. So he moves a little closer to her, silently praying to any deity who will listen that she won't move away and asks, "Why?"

She doesn't shy away, instead pressing herself torturously against him, eyes no longer shining but dull and flat. He knows he's speaking with the demon now, with the creature who has stolen her skin. "Because you made me," she practically hisses, voice low and angry, "Because you couldn't do the one thing you promised. Because you showed me weakness when I needed strength." She shifts closer still, breath tickling his ear, lips barely grazing his skin, "And I could be _so_ strong."

He has to take a deep breath, has to pull himself away from the moment to stop from falling under her spell. It would be so easy to just let go, give in and let her have him. Let the darkness win and rule both of them in a blinding bliss. But he has come here with a renewed sense of purpose and he _must_ anchor himself in that resolve.

"I can't believe it. I won't. There is no way, in this realm or any other, that I would betray you so harshly," he says back, desperation sparking on his tongue. He doesn't care what it looks like though; he is a dying man begging for life at her feet. "I promised to always be honest with you, to never fall to trickery or deceit. You are the woman I love, Emma, and I would never hurt you. Please. Tell me what happened in Camelot."

He has the same agenda as everyone else, of that she is sure. He wants to change her back, to defeat the darkness but, on the edges of her awareness, she is also beginning to see something else in his ambition. Something familiar and comforting. He wants to _know_ her, to _understand_ her. Just as he always has. And that is dangerous.

"I can't." Her voice isn't nearly as strong this time.

He steps back into her space, reaching up to cup her cheek, hand warm against her clammy skin. She's missed his touch, his comfort, his love.

"Then why do you keep coming to me, trying to make this work? Trying to let the darkness consume us both? You know I'm a man of honour, a pirate, yes, but I live by a code, Emma." He wants her to understand that he meant what he said about no trickery. That it goes for both of them.

She searches his face, seeing only bare honesty reflected back at her. And his hand feels so right on her skin, his touch so welcome and needed. A large part of her screams her weakness at her, but there is also a part that, despite everything, wants this; wants to be wrapped up in love and home and everything she's hoped for since childhood. With pleading eyes, she answers him truthfully, "Because I can't let you go, Killian. I can't release myself of your grip."

It's like he can see the struggle inside of her, the internal battle turned external. It's as though they're standing out on the main street of Storybrooke all over again and all he can see is darkness consuming his guiding light. His thumb flicks out to brush her lips, then trails down her neck and arm to tangle their fingers together, He lowers his voice and approaches the vulnerable side of her, the side with walls he's scaled a thousand times over, the side that is truly Emma and not the beast inside of her.

"Stop trying," he whispers, "Don't let me go. Don't give up."

Her free hand comes up to mimic his gesture across his lips, softly drawing him to her to finally kiss him. And it feels how it always used to, light and warm and so full of hope that her heart almost can't contain it. His hooked arm wraps around her waist, drawing her against him and refusing to let go, relishing in this one small fraction of time he's been allowed.

Eventually though, she does pull back, forehead rested against his and refusing to open her eyes for the moment, savouring everything that kiss represents. "I couldn't if I tried," she finally answers him.

It takes him a second to remember what they had been talking about, so dizzy from the intoxicating hold she has on him, and a second is all she needs to vanish in her cloud of silvery smoke, leaving him standing in a room filled with dreams.

He takes a breath and spins around the room, reaching out to touch one of the many dreamcatchers hanging from the ceiling, smiling wistfully as he looks at the intricate detail of her work, the way she's twined string around wood and around the feathers at the bottom. It's not the detail that catches his eye though, it's something in the boldness of the pink petals clinging to the string, wrapped in with the feathers, that stirs his recognition.

Warm breezes and her lips. A promise, a wish, a great love story that is only part way through.

…

 _ **Thoughts?**_


End file.
